My first husband, who died in 1991, was eleven years older than me. My second husband, my dear farmer, who was part of my life during my time in Blogland, was eleven years younger than me. When I was young such an age difference, where the man was younger than the woman, would have been the talk of the village. But these days it is commonplace and we never gave it a thought either before or during our marriage. It was just accepted by us and all our friends and everybody else.
Looking through that old 'poetry' notebook I spoke of last week, I came across another bit of writing I did back in 2010. It made me smile in the context of the above paragraph - so hope it makes you smile too.
He was wearing Georgio Armani,
I was drinking a Pink Gin.
We were opposite ends of the cocktail bar
as the Glitterati came in.
I saw him glance at his Rolex
as the crowd milled round the bar.
But he didn't seem to notice them -
he kept his eyes on the door.
She came through the door at a gentle pace,
walking hesitantly with a stick.
She positively dripped diamonds
and her make-up was laid on thick.
He stood as she approached him
and he gave her a cool embrace.
She took his arm when he offered it
and they both walked out of the place.
I finished my gin and paid the bill
and I followed them out of the door.
But once outside there was no sign
that they had been there before.
So I got my coat and hailed a cab
and I thought as we drove back home:
was he a gigolo meeting a lover
or was the old lady just his mother?
Have a good week-end.